


What He Wrote

by fitofpique



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitofpique/pseuds/fitofpique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't sure if John's flirting or just an exceedingly inept typist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Wrote

**Sun, May 22, 2011**

**John                                                                                                   Sun 9:41PM**

_Do you have a spare hard-on in that midden you call a bedroom? I could really use one._

Sherlock stares at his mobile in disbelief for several long moments. He reads it again, but the message hasn’t changed: John still seems to be asking if he has an extraneous erection. Obviously, they’ve grown quite intimate of late, but surely this oversteps the bounds of even a partnership as close as theirs?

How to reply? He bites his lip and runs his thumb over the keyboard of the phone while he considers. Probably best to be direct.

**Me                                                                                                      Sun 9:47PM**

_Not at the moment, no._

**John                                                                                                   Sun 9:50PM**

_Are you sure? I need to get off_

Sherlock gapes at the screen of his phone and continues gaping while he pulls a blanket from the shelf in his wardrobe and drapes it over his shoulders. He feels light-headed and a shiver runs through him from neck to knee. For the first time that he can remember, Sherlock actually has no idea what to say. Well done, John.

**John                                                                                                   Sun 9:51PM**

_Oops, hit send too soon. I need to get everything off my computer. Spilt tea on the keyboard. Circle jerk is ruined._

**Me                                                                                                      Sun 9:52PM** __

_This conversation is making me uncomfortable, John._

**John                                                                                                   Sun 9:52PM**

_HARD DRIVE. CIRCUIT BOARD. OH MY GOD. SORRY!_

It takes Sherlock an unusually long time to find his spare external drive, which is exactly where it should be, under the loose floorboard beneath his bedside table. He quickly deletes all potentially damning files and hands the drive over to John, who is waiting shamefaced, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, outside his bedroom door.

“Sorry,” John says, staring into the empty air beyond Sherlock’s left shoulder. He lifts the drive to his forehead and performs the world’s most awkward salute with it before muttering, “thanks,” then turns and runs back up the stairs to his room.

:::

**Tuesday, May 24, 2011**

Sherlock’s in a taxi on the way to the morgue to run an experiment he’s designed to analyse post-mortem macular degeneration in the presence of various pressurized poisonous gases. He gets a little frisson when his text alert sounds. Perhaps it’s Lestrade with something worthy of his attention. ****

**John                                                                                                   Tue 1:03PM**

_Where are you? I want to rub something on you_

**John                                                                                                   Tue 1:03PM**

_By you_

**John                                                                                                   Tue 1:04PM**

_Run something! By you. Damn it! What is wrong with this phone?_

**John                                                                                                   Tue 1:04PM**

_Never mind._ _It’s not important._

Sherlock rereads John’s texts, feeling much too warm all of a sudden. His fingers tremble slightly when he slips his mobile into his breast pocket.

:::

**Me                                                                                                      Tue 4:30PM**

_At Sainsbury’s getting pineapple juice and eye drops. Do we need anything else?_

**John                                                                                                   Tue 4:32PM**

_Milk and condoms._

For only the second time in his life, Sherlock finds himself staring in slack-jawed shock at his mobile. He’s certain things between John and what’s her face fizzled months ago, and John hasn’t had an uninterrupted date with anyone else in ages, Sherlock’s made sure of that, so who the bloody hell is John shagging? He rereads his own text. “Do we need anything else? Do _we_ needanything else.”Oh, God. A theory is starting to take shape in his mind, and he really isn’t certain how he feels about it. Is it possible that this is John’s utterly deranged approach to flirting? ****

 _Is_ John trying it on? With him? By pretending his mobile’s to blame for his suggestive messages, John has planted the idea of a sexual relationship between them in Sherlock’s mind and eliminated the possibility of outright rejection. As a courting method it’s unconventional in the extreme, but there’s a certain genius to John’s approach that Sherlock can’t help but admire.

When he looks up from his mobile, Sherlock realizes he’s standing in the Family Planning aisle. How fortuitous. But there’s a staggering array of condoms and personal lubricants, and what have you. How do people choose? Lubricated, unlubricated, extra-safe, flavoured, natural, ribbed, multi-coloured, extra-large ... surely most men’s pride would dictate that they purchase the extra-large variety, regardless of the actual size of their member? He’s about to record a voice memo reminding himself to look into it when his mobile chirps again.

**John                                                                                                   Tue 4:35PM**

_Milk and COFFEE. Pls look at my mobile tonight and see if you can figure out how to turn off autocomplete_

Or maybe it really is just the mobile. Sherlock ignores the twist in his chest that feels peculiarly like disappointment and drops a box of extra-large, extra-safe condoms into his basket. For research.

And after all that, he forgets to get the bloody milk.

:::

**Friday, May 27, 2011**

**John                                                                                                   Fri 3:07PM**

_Sherlock, I’m just about to leave the clinic but can’t find my keys. Will you be at the flat in half an hour?_

John hasn’t sent him a suggestive text in three days – even though Sherlock had only pretended to change the settings on his mobile when John had handed it to him the instant he walked through the door following the condom/coffee incident – and things have been decidedly dull around the flat. His fingers hover over his mobile as he considers how to respond. He starts to type, taking care not to examine his motivations too carefully.

**Me                                                                                                      Fri 3:10PM**

_Yes, I’ll be aroused._

No response comes for several excruciating minutes, during which time Sherlock loses his nerve. __

**Me                                                                                                      Fri 3:14PM**

_AROUND. Did our mobiles get swapped?_

**John                                                                                                   Fri 3:14PM**

_Ha! At least it wasn’t me for once._

**Me                                                                                                      Fri 3:15PM**

_We’re out of milk and floor wax, by the way._

**John                                                                                                   Fri 3:15PM**

_Do I want to know what you did with the floor wax?_

**Me                                                                                                      Fri 3:16PM**

_…no._

Sherlock rereads the exchange and experiences the unfamiliar sensation of heat creeping into his cheeks, which is surprising. It isn’t as though he actually _is_ aroused. Well ... not very. He flops down on the settee and pretends to read until he hears John’s distinctive knock at the door.

:::

**Saturday, May 28, 2011**

**Me                                                                                                      Sat 2:34PM**

_John, crime scene, St George’s in the East. Dismembered corpse with two penises, please come._

**John                                                                                                   Sat 2:41PM**

_Is autocorrect playing silly buggers again?_

**Me                                                                                                      Sat 2:41PM**

_No._

**John                                                                                                   Sat 2:43PM**

_Oh, right. Just getting into a taxi._

:::

“Diphallia!” Sherlock stares in wonder. “Have you come across this before, John?”

Someone titters behind them, and John rolls his eyes even as the tips of his ears flush pink. He shakes his head. “It’s extremely rare.”

Anderson makes his highly unpleasant presence known by dropping the auxiliary light source Lestrade asked him to fetch with a thundering crash and observing, with characteristic vacuity, “It mightn’t have anything to do with the murder.”

John’s on his feet before Sherlock has time to prepare a sufficiently withering remark.

“Are you naturally that stupid or have you taken additional training?” he asks, huffing indignantly. The effect is lessened somewhat by the fact that he looks like an outsized Smurf in the blue crime scene coveralls, but he’s still formidable. “The murderer might as well have drawn a big red circle around the victim’s genitals, for Christ’s sake.”

It’s exactly what Sherlock would have said himself if he’d had the chance. He fastens another button on his coat to conceal his sudden erection.

Around the room, the police and forensics people feign busyness, but the low buzz of conversation is gone. John takes no notice of the silence. He kneels down beside Sherlock again and gently tilts the victim’s head to one side so he can examine the eyes.

Sherlock gives himself a mental slap and refocuses on the work.

:::

Donovan and Anderson are huddled close and whispering beside the squad car when Sherlock, with John beside him, steps into the street to hail a taxi.  
  
“–awfully excited to see two pricks when it’s something he probably sees every day,” Anderson says, shooting a look at them over his shoulder.  
  
Donovan elbows him in the ribs. “Shut up,” she hisses, but she’s laughing. Their eyes meet and hers widen, but at what, Sherlock can’t say. For the first time in his life, he has no idea of the expression on his face.

What a curious sensation, he muses, as he folds himself into the taxi. Curious and uncomfortable in the extreme. He looks over at John, who’s slouched casually on the seat to his left. He looks tired, his hair slightly ruffled. He looks lovely, Sherlock thinks, surprising himself by reaching over and smoothing down the hair at the crown of his head.  
  
John smiles at him and something in Sherlock's chest throbs pleasurably. He can only presume it’s his heart.

This is starting to become a problem.

:::

**Wednesday, June 1, 2011**

He’s in Bern investigating a counterfeit cheese ring when it happens next.

**John                                                                                                   Wed 11:43PM**

_Do I need to do anything sexual to these cultures to keep them alive ‘till you get back?_  
  
Sherlock abandons his search for his toothbrush and takes a deep shuddering breath before he hits reply. He’s about to start typing, though he has no idea what, when an image of John, naked and ejaculating into a petri dish, appears unbidden in his mind. He presses a hand to the front of his trousers and sits down on the edge of the bed lest his suddenly watery legs refuse to continue to support him. His phone beeps to signal another message.

 **John                                                                                                   Wed 11:44PM**  
  
 _Special! Not sexual! Fuck it all. You_ ’ _re going to have to take out a restraining order on this damn phone._

Sherlock’s hand is shaking too badly to type a reply, so he shoves it into his trousers. His prick is hot and damp and throbbing. From a typo.

It is not, he feels, a tenable situation. He determines to take matters into his own hands, after he … _no_. He refuses to let himself even think a pun so asinine. He is going to have a nice wank, and then he’ll work out what to do about John.

:::

**Sunday, June 5, 2011**

Of course, it isn’t quite so simple once he’s home. He can’t just _say_ something about these feelings and desires he’s developed. That would be bizarre beyond measure. And John most certainly wouldn’t believe him.

And so life goes on. John is his usual unflappable self, most of the time, even when Sherlock fills the kitchen sink with jelly and marbles and forgets to empty it out once he’s confirmed his hypothesis. Lestrade is suspiciously silent, so nothing of interest is happening at the Yard. And their mobiles are on best behaviour. It’s intolerably boring and utterly hateful.  
  
In films, a single word or a look is often enough to change a relationship. In actuality, Sherlock and John have exchanged countless looks and thousands upon thousands of words and not a single thing has changed, except that now the quotidian nature of their interactions frustrates Sherlock beyond belief. He feels a strong desire, almost an ache, to get up off the settee, walk up the stairs, and simply declare himself. His heart flies faster at the thought and he nods decisively. Yes, that’s what he’ll do.

He humps himself to his feet, knees shaking, and promptly collapses back onto the settee. What would he say? _John, your dreadful typing is the catalyst that ignited the flames of my passion?_ Accurate but absurd. He scowls at the room at large. How could he have ended up in such a ludicrous situation? Longing! Fretfulness! Sentiment! It’s unbearable.

A flash of light between the cushions catches his attention before he can descend fully into a spiral of self-loathing. He pulls out his mobile and opens his text messages.

**John                                                                                                   Sun 6:14PM**  


_I’m horny. You?_

He has to act decisively, before John notices his mistake, if it is a mistake, and corrects it.

**Me                                                                                                      Sun 6:15PM**

_Yes._

**John                                                                                                   Sun 6:15PM**

_Really?_  
  
 **Me                                                                                                      Sun 6:15PM**

_Very._

Two seconds later, John thunders down the stairs. “Are you serious?” he asks, crossing the room at a jog.

“Deadly,” Sherlock says

“Really,” John says, but it’s not a question. He’s already pulling off his jumper and starting on his buttons. “Fucking finally.”

Sherlock throws off his dressing gown and closes the distance between them. “I wasn’t sure if you were flirting or just an exceedingly inept typist.”

“Bit of both actually,” John says, reaching out and pulling Sherlock’s t-shirt over his head. “I thought you knew everything.”

“I do,” he replies, unbuttoning John’s jeans and pushing jeans and pants both down around his hips. He wraps his fingers around John’s erection and sighs happily.

“No you don’t,” John says, standing up on his toes and kissing him fiercely. He grips Sherlock’s bicep tightly and parts his lips and then, oh god, then his tongue is brushing against Sherlock’s lips and darting inside, and he’s running the tips of his fingers down the groove of Sherlock’s spine so the muscles in his back begin to shudder.

“Are you hard for me?” John whispers it against his lips, and Sherlock feels as though his entire body has been lit with flame.

“Yes,” he  hisses, pressing his hips forward, his thighs clenching and shaking. He looks down at John’s prick in his hand, gasps and comes in his pyjama bottoms.

“Oh, fuck. _Oh_ ,” John grates out and thrusts hard into Sherlock’s fist. It’s a struggle to stay on his feet, but Sherlock wraps his free hand around John’s wrist so he can feel his racing pulse, the need thrumming through him, and strokes him tight and sweet until John trembles and shouts and collapses against him.

He’s not sure how long they stand there, pressed tightly together, swaying in an almost transcendental post-coital daze. Eventually they shuffle over to the settee and subside on it together and Sherlock closes his eyes, just for a second.

The chirp of his mobile rouses him.

**John                                                                                                   Sun 8:39PM**

_I was half-starved (for some reason:), so I just popped out to get takeaway. Do we need anything at the shops?_ __

**Me                                                                                                      Sun 8:40PM**

_No, just come home. Now, pls._

**John                                                                                                   Sun 8:41PM**

_Patience. Good things come to those who wank._

**Me                                                                                                      Sun 8:41PM**

_Excellent. We’re both in luck then._

**John                                                                                                   Sun 8:42PM**

_Ha! Seriously though, now that we’ve got all this sorted, we are getting new phones._

The end.


End file.
